


a melody in two parts

by sabinelagrande



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Hand Feeding, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Scene: The Bandstand (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22153042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: "Meet me at the bandstand," Aziraphale says.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 349
Collections: Open Heart





	a melody in two parts

Crowley's phone rings, and he knows it's Aziraphale. He doesn't even say hello, because Aziraphale will just start talking, filling the silence if Crowley doesn't say anything. 

"Meet me at the bandstand," Aziraphale says, without prelude, sounding a bit nervous in a way that Crowley immediately picks up on. 

Crowley wants to hush him, to point out the necessity of secrets; it's on his tongue to say it when he catches himself. "Yeah, alright," he says. "Half an hour?"

"Better make it forty-five minutes," Aziraphale says, and he rings off without an explanation. 

So Crowley, definitely curious, waits a few minutes and wanders over, taking his time, perhaps strolling a bit. He can see Aziraphale before he gets there, fussing over something.

"What are you doing, angel?" Crowley calls.

"There you are," Aziraphale says, like Crowley is late.

About ten meters away, Crowley realizes what's happening. Aziraphale has laid out a blanket, and on that he's laid out a spread, cheeses and wine and meats, a bottle of champagne sticking out of the picnic hamper.

Crowley walks a little more slowly, not sure what else to do, and Aziraphale wipes his hands on his trousers. Crowley knows it's just a nervous gesture, because Aziraphale's hands are and ever shall be immaculate. 

"What's the occasion?" Crowley says, though inside, he feels like he already knows.

"Come and sit," Aziraphale says, indicating a spot. He's got it all arranged just so, a space for Crowley and a place for himself, like they're figures in a painting, composed artfully, separated by the plates and glasses.

Crowley sits down. Aziraphale runs his hand over the neck of the wine bottle and the cork pops out. He pours glasses for both of them; he raises his glass, and Crowley does the same.

"Um," Aziraphale says, with no trace of the eloquence he so often displays. "Cheers."

"Cheers," Crowley says, taking a sip of the wine; it is a perfectly chilled chenin blanc, acidic and bright on his tongue.

"Have some of this," Aziraphale says, spreading something green delicately on a small piece of toast and shoving it at Crowley. "It's delicious. They make it at-"

"Angel," Crowley says, gently pushing his hand away. "What is this?"

Aziraphale's shoulders tense. Crowley can see him start to lie, but he takes a deliberate breath, holding it before letting it out. "This is my apology."

"For what?" Crowley says.

Aziraphale puts the toast down, forgetting it immediately. "This is-" he starts, and he has to stop and swallow whatever emotion he's trying to tamp down. "This is where I drove you away."

Crowley wants to laugh at the idea, the notion that anyone could keep him from Aziraphale, Aziraphale included, but that would be a lie too. This is where it broke, where the thing between them snapped. They are building a new thing, for a new world, have been since they stood on the tarmac of a military base, something written in the brushing of hands and the lightness of the laughter they can share now.

"I-" Aziraphale says, when Crowley doesn't know how to respond. "I thought I knew better than you. I thought I couldn't save the world if I had to-" He stops, wringing his hands. "I did it because I loved you, but that doesn't excuse it. I'm so sorry."

Crowley wants to say that all is forgiven; he wants to be the kind of person who could be that magnanimous without a thought. "You said 'loved,'" Crowley says, hung up instead on a single letter.

Aziraphale's brow furrows. "What?"

"Loved," Crowley says, accentuating the D. "Is that how it is? Past tense?"

Aziraphale doesn't move, but Crowley sees him break like a dam. "Never," he says, the words pouring out of him now. "Never, my love, only ever present, present since _Eden_ -"

Crowley takes pity on him, leaning forward and lacing his hand into his hair, using it to pull him in. Their lips meet, and something within Crowley clicks into place, like pins setting in a lock so it can finally turn. Aziraphale tastes faintly of wine and nothing else, no zing of Heavenly power like Crowley has secretly feared on some colder nights. The kiss deepens, and Aziraphale's hands come up to grip Crowley's shoulders, his fingers digging in like he doesn't know his own strength. This is what Crowley has ached for for so long, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to turn it loose now that he has it.

Aziraphale is panting when they break apart, and he looks almost distraught, like he's given so much of himself away that there's no reeling it back in, like his whole heart, revealed for the fragile, spun-glass thing it is, has been lifted out of him and placed in Crowley's shaking hands.

"Me too, angel," Crowley says. It turns out demons can love, given the right impetus, but that doesn't make Crowley good at talking about it. "Since forever."

Aziraphale smiles, literally glowing for a moment before it settles. "Oh good," he says. "I didn't have a Plan B."

"To be fair, you usually don't," Crowley said.

"I do have a picnic," Aziraphale says, indicating it with a wave of his hand that still seems a little nervous.

"This is all wrong," Crowley says, and before Aziraphale's heart can break, he snaps his fingers and the picnic rearranges itself, leaving them in a different configuration, so that they've got room to touch, a composition that's a little more naturalistic. Crowley lays down, sprawled with his head in Aziraphale's lap. "Much better. Now you can feed me all the little toasts and green stuff you want."

Aziraphale kisses his forehead, his mouth, and somehow Crowley knew it would be like this, that Aziraphale wouldn't be able to stop stealing kisses once he had permission to steal them, like sneaking greedy little bites of Crowley. Crowley's more than okay with being devoured like that, wants to lay himself out like a feast, free for the taking.

"It really is delectable," Aziraphale says, picking up the toast again, and Crowley opens his mouth when Aziraphale tries to hand it to him. Aziraphale huffs, but he holds it so that Crowley can take a bite.

"Mmm," Crowley says, chewing consideringly. "Now that is some delicious green stuff."

"If you liked that, wait until you try the red stuff," Aziraphale says.

"Ooh," Crowley says. "I love red stuff."

And something unfolds, unfurls, leaves the box it has been stuffed in for so long, packed so tightly that it has taken on the shape, the memory of being small. But there is no putting it back, ever again, no chance and no desire to force it back into where it came from.

Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale ever try.


End file.
